


Le Droit du Seigneur

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The peaceful calm of Camelot is shattered when Merlin happens upon Gwen--Queen-to-Be--and Lancelot, together. But no one, especially not Merlin, expected Arthur to react like...this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Droit du Seigneur

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but the joy of writing. These characters are not mine.
> 
> NB: Sad

             It was always something with Arthur.

            One would think that, as the crowned King of Camelot, sworn protector of the realm, and Lord of all he surveyed, Arthur would have, over the course of his lifetime, gathered about himself a few skills to aid in his basic survival.

            This could not be further from the truth.

            Instead of worldly knowledge and experience, Arthur had amassed _servants_. Well, to be fair, Uther had hired the vast majority of the Citadel’s staff, and Arthur had simply retained them when the throne passed to him. Even Merlin owed his employment to the late King and not his son. Still, the discrepancy in terms of acquisition did not, in the slightest, affect Arthur’s ability to utilize the help to his (and their) full extent.

            Take, for example, this morning. Merlin had been slumbering peacefully, the cotton thinness of his blanket wrapped tight around his supine form, when a knock, emanating from the large, oaken door to Gaius’ chambers, resounded through the main room, up the steps to Merlin’s door, reverberating off the constricted confines of his bedroom. As the unknown knuckles continued to _rap rap rap_ , bone against wood, the sound echoed through Merlin’s skull, piercing the veil between dream and consciousness, till he rose, bleary eyed, grinding a palm over his face as he attempted to shield himself from the glare of wakefulness.

            As his limbs arched and stretched, a satisfying pop of his spine accompanying the begrudged groan as it tumbled from out his mouth, Merlin could hear Gaius open the door, hinges squeaking a protested greeting. Voices mumbled together, then the door shut once more with a _click_. Padded footsteps shuffled across the flagstones, and the wooden planks of the steps grumbled beneath Gaius’ weight as he approached Merlin’s private quarters. An aged fist tapped entreatingly on the door.

            “Merlin? Are you awake?”

            “I am _now_ ,” Merlin muttered under his breath as he threw back his blanket and rose to his feet. When he flung open his bedroom door, Gaius stood on the landing, still dressed in his night gown, wisps of white hair all out of place. In his hand he clutched a roll of parchment.

            “It’s from the tannery in the lower town,” Gaius explained, handing the scroll to Merlin, who unfurled it, blinking rapidly as the black scrawl unblurred and materialized into comprehensible words. “An order form, for a pair of Arthur’s gloves.”

            “Then what the blazes is it doing here before breakfast?” Merlin asked, an incredulous note piercing the sleep-addled haze of his voice.

            “They were given specific instructions to deliver it as soon as the gloves were ready. Apparently Arthur wanted to try them out before the Queen’s Tourney.”

            “Yes, but why are they _here_?” Merlin punctuated his question with a grand sweep of his arm, taking in the humble confines of the chambers he shared with his adopted father and court physician.

            “According to the courier, they were told the King’s manservant would collect the order on his Highness’s behalf.”

            Of course. Of-bloody-course. Why had Merlin suspected otherwise? Never mind the fact that Arthur, grown man-child though he was, could have sent Merlin—or any _other_ servant—to fetch his gloves at a reasonable hour. No, Arthur had to have them _now_ , as soon as possible, despite the fact that he wouldn’t even try them on until this afternoon’s training session.

            And Arthur always got what he wanted.

            Since he saw no use arguing, Merlin got dressed while Gaius prepared porridge, slopping a spoonful of the beige, boiling concoction into Merlin’s wooden bowl, which rattled and threaten to topple over. But due to the morning’s early hour, and his foul mood, which permeated his presence like a black miasma, Merlin found he could only stomach a couple of bites before shoving off from the table, and walking from the room, the door slamming shut behind a bit louder than he’d intended.

            Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Merlin couldn’t maintain his foul mood as he stomped down the narrow alleys from the Citadel towards the lower town. Though the hour was early and the morning air crisp, the sun had already begun to peek over the thatched rooftops, the straw alight in resplendent shades of gold. At a brisk pace Merlin trotted over cobblestones, warmth ebbing its way down into the tips of his fingers and toes. Each breath bit into his lungs, clean and sharp as glass. By the time he arrived at the tannery, Merlin’s face had broken in half in a wide grin, the thrill of possibility afforded by an early morning too infectious to resist.

            “Hello, Sire,” said the tanner’s assistant, a young lad several years Merlin’s junior, “may I help you with anything?”

            “I’m here to pick of King Arthur’s gloves,” said Merlin, handing over the script he’d gotten from Gaius. The clerk glanced briefly at the parchment he himself had most likely written (if not delivered) before nodding and retreating to a backroom. While he waited Merlin could hear him rummaging, the chorus of doors pulled open and shut overlaid with the heady scent of freshly oiled leather. Suddenly Merlin’s stomach felt terribly empty and the thick smell in the air made his head begin to spin. His knuckles, bone white, gripped the counter, the wood supporting his weight as his vision swam.

            “Here you are, Si—is everything alright?” The young clerk asked as he stepped back through the doorway, a pair of fine, brown leather gloves in his hands.

            “Just a bit peckish, is all,” Merlin brushed off the other man’s concern with a toothy grin, “didn’t have much time for breakfast this morning.”

            “Ah, yes, I do apologize for disturbing you at such an early hour, but, as I’m sure you are aware, we were given _specific_ instructions to notify you as soon as the gloves were ready.”

            “Right, right, of course. I’m just wondering though, why didn’t you just _bring_ the gloves this morning? Why have me trek all the way down here to fetch them?”

            The store clerk cast his eyes down, and coughed forcibly, as if to clear his throat.

            “The, um, King requested we hold the gloves till you arrived. Something about a ‘tendency to oversleep,’ and wanting an assurance that, should anything happen to the gloves before they were delivered to him, he’d know whom to hold responsible.”

            Merlin felt the color rising to his cheeks as his nostrils flared with a long, exasperated sigh.

            “Of course he did. Thank you.” And with that, Merlin left the store, gloves clenched so hard in his fist the leather wrinkled.

            Whatever effect the early morning air had had on him had now evaporated like mist before the dawn. Merlin seethed as he stomped through the lower town, his glare casting daggers to any passerby that happened to catch his eye. As he stormed through the market, though, the wafting scents of meat pies and baked bread, the sight of red and orange and green mountains of fruits and vegetables caused a roar to rumble deep in Merlin’s stomach. He deeply regretted skipping breakfast, and as he craned his neck back to stare up at the Citadel, Merlin suddenly found himself bereft of energy, the ascent back to his chambers entirely impossible unless he got some food in him.

            All about him was lain a smorgasbord of delights. Merlin’s mouth watered. Unable to decide what he wanted, he simply strode over to the nearest stall, which was manned by an elderly woman, spider web hair falling down over her face.

            “Eh how cen ey help ye?” She asked with a grin. From between the gaps where teeth should have been, Merlin could see the inside of her mouth, pink and moist.

            “A meat pie, please.”

            Behind the woman sat a cart, the back of which was loaded with steaming, succulent pies. She turned and picked one out, laying it on the wooden stall between them.

            “At’ll beh tree coiwns luv,” she said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers, the knuckles gnarled and swollen as knobs on an oak.

            Merlin patted his pockets in search of coin. The fabric rustled emptily. In his haste this morning, Merlin had neglected to bring any money with him, certain that, had Arthur not already paid for his order in full, that the store would take credit from the Crown.

            “Tree coiwns, tree cowins,” the old woman croaked, squawking and waving her fingers in Merlin’s face as he checked and doubled check his trousers for spare change.

            “I—I’m sorry, it’s just that, well I seemed to have forgotten my money and—”

            With a scowl the old woman scooped up her pie and twisted away defensively, as if she suspected Merlin would, at any moment, lunge for it and dash away.

            “Nah coiwn, nah pie,” she spat, turning and placing the pie back on her cart.

            “Please, I’m King Arthur’s manservant,” Merlin explained, a tinge of desperation in his voice, “if you just let me have the pie I can run up and grab some coins…” But the old woman wasn’t listening; she’d already turned her attention away, hawking to other customers, the surge of which gently pushed Merlin on his way.

            _Stupid, stupid_ , Merlin grumbled to himself as his stomach growled in protest, _stupid Arthur, stupid pies, stupid money, stupid, stupid._ Merlin was just resigning himself to die of starvation in the street when he realized where exactly he was and that Gwen’s house, the old blacksmith’s forge she’d inherited from her father, was just round the corner.

            Of course, being engaged to Arthur, Gwen spent much of her time in the Citadel with the King. They’d even made up a bed for her, though separate from Arthur’s, for propriety’s sake. Still, till they were officially wed, Gwen maintained her modest household in the lower town. She said it reminded her of her father, and, as Merlin could well understand, sometimes she just needed a break from Arthur.

            Merlin had seen her off the night before, down the stairs to the courtyard, where she joined a patrol of knights, who’d see her safely home. Hoping against hope, Merlin prayed that Gwen hadn’t risen early to break her fast with the King, and instead was still at home, hopefully with some bread and honey to share with a starving friend.

            He rounded a bend and made for Gwen’s door. His hand had been raised, knuckles poised to rap against the door, when the sound of shattering crockery stilled Merlin in his tracks. The rough scrape of wood against stone, then the clatter of a chair falling on the ground. Gwen’s startled gasp.

            Without thought or hesitation Merlin burst through the door, magic crackling beneath his skin, the tips of his fingers charged and pulsing with might. Already an arcane word, a lost syllable, rose to his lips, ready to vanquish the foe foolish enough to harm the King’s bride-to-be.

            And then he saw them. Gwen sat, hoisted up on the table, the trail of her dress hitched up high to pool around her thighs. Like stars, pieces of a broken water jug lay scattered on the floor, white against the dark ground. And standing there, his body pressed against Gwen’s hips, his mouth on hers, kissing her, was Lancelot, bravest and noblest of them all.

            Suddenly, everything became very small and distant, as if Merlin were gazing through a looking glass. His heartbeat sounded deafening in his ears, and he felt dizzy, dizzier than before in the tannery. He swayed, legs going jelly beneath him, and he reached out a hand to catch himself against the wall. His wrist caught some hanging tool, all iron and blackened from soot, which clanged noisily. Gwen and Lancelot looked up and saw him there.

            They flew apart, as if each other’s body was hot metal and they’d been burnt. For a moment they stared silently at each other, each breathing heavy. Then Merlin turned on his heel and fled.

            _How could she do such a thing?_ Merlin wondered as he forced his way through the crowd milling about in the lower town market. Merlin never professed to know much about love, but he understood kindness. And cruelty. So what if Gwen had once loved Lancelot? She was engaged to Arthur know. And sure, Arthur could be a right royal ass at times, and a dollophead, and a clotpole, but he was also brave and just and caring when he felt inclined to be. And Gwen loved him, or at least said she did. So how could she hurt him this way?

            Merlin reached the gates of the Citadel and turned back to look down the path leading back to the lower town. In the distance he could see a motley mixture of browns and tans and beiges, the threadbare clothes the common people swathed themselves in. Dotted here and there, the crimson slash of a passing knight’s cloak. Except for Merlin, the courtyard was deserted.

            She didn’t even have the decency to run after him.

 

            “Ah, Merlin! You’re looking bright eyed and bushy tailed!” Arthur chortled from his bed, where he sat up, back resting against the headboard. A scroll lay unfurled on his lap, some treaty or revised tax code. Recently, he’d taken to working in bed, especially at night. Said it helped him sleep. “I take it you picked up my gloves?”

            “Yes, Sire,” Merlin set Arthur’s breakfast down on the bedside table, forced himself to stare at the loaf of bread, “I’ve set them with your armor. Oiled and ready for this afternoon’s training.”

            “You know, Merlin, you’re not half as incompetent as you look,” said Arthur, before lifting the tray of food onto his lap. He devoured the meats and cheese and fruit with abandon. Merlin remembered his earlier hunger, now absent, much like one remembers a dream—hollow where once there’d been something. Arthur looked up from his breakfast, cheeks distended with food, and tried to catch Merlin’s eye. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt your feelings?” Arthur snided, baiting Merlin for a rise. “You know I find you a proper servant, when you’re not lushing in the tavern.”

            “No, Sire. Of course, Sire. Just a bit tired, is all.”

            “Yes, well, think of how productive you can be, now that you won’t spend all morning dozing in bed. My boots need polishing before this afternoon. And don’t forget there’s the council meeting to prepare for. Heaven knows how we’re going to raise all the gold necessary for Gwen’s tournament.”

            At Gwen’s name, Merlin stiffened, spine rigid and unbending. He turned, pivoting on his heel, and busied himself with the King’s wardrobe.

            “Speaking of, have you seen Gwen yet this morning? She told me last night she’d be by round breakfast.”

            Merlin drew in a steadying breath, heavy with the scent of wool and mothballs. His nails bit crescent moons into the wood.

            “Gwen? Nope, no, can’t say I have. Not since last night, of course. Cause I saw her last night. But not this morning.” Merlin twisted his neck around and grinned too wide, baring all his teeth. Arthur cocked and eyebrow and studied Merlin for a moment before shrugging and returning to his meal.

 

            Gwen found him, later, when he was sharpening Arthur’s sword in the armory. He’d already served lunch, two plates; Gwen was expected to join Arthur before he went to council. Before she could arrive, Merlin had “remembered” that Arthur’s sword had been nicked the day before, _and the King can’t have a nicked sword, now can he_? He looked when he heard the door open and saw her standing there, watching him. At least she’d changed her dress.

            “Arthur told me you were here,” she said, not moving forward, but hovering like a specter in the doorframe. “Have you got a lot of work to do? I could help, I’m pretty handy with a sword, you know.”

            “I don’t need your help,” Merlin muttered, face bent toward the blade in his hands.

            “Look, I just wanted to say—”

            “What?” Merlin cut her off. “What did you want to say?”

            For a long moment neither of them spoke, but held the other’s gaze, carefully, like one would handle a poisoned dagger.

            “Just, I’m sorry, for what you saw, earlier. Sorry that you saw it.”

            “But not that it happened.” Gwen didn’t answer him. Merlin worried she’d start crying. “Does Arthur know?”

            “No!” Gwen stepped forward then, just a foot. Merlin noticed the muscles of her neck tighten. “He can’t find out, please. He’d…he’d kill Lance.”

            She didn’t mention herself, what Arthur would do to her. _Selfless_ , Merlin though, _or confident_.

            “You have to tell him. Or I will.”

            Merlin stood, fit the sword onto the rack, turned and stared at Gwen. Her pulse jumped in her neck. She wanted to tell Merlin, tell him _why_ and _how_ , he could see that in the way her eyes shimmered wetly. But Merlin didn’t want to know. Knowing, asking, would have condoned it somehow.

            “Alright. Before the week’s end I’ll—”

            “Today.”

            Gwen looked as if she were going to challenge him. She’d stood straighter, shoulder set, her chin slightly higher than parallel to the ground. She’d be Queen one day, so they all said. And she knew it. She’d been practicing. But Merlin never bent his gaze, and eventually she crumbled. She gave him a curt nod, and turned to leave, gown whispering along the floor as it trailed behind her.

            She took all the air with her.

 

            There was no shouting. At least, none Merlin could hear. Later, once the damage had been done, he’d overhear a couple scullery maids gossiping about the clamor coming from the King’s chamber, shortly after the Lady Guinevere had entered. But they suspected the raised voices to be amorous rather than quarrelsome.

            But when Merlin saw Arthur, tight-fisted, lips pressed into a pale, thin line, he knew Gwen had kept her word. He strode right by him, the muscles of his arms tensed and stood, stock-still, in the middle of the armory. In the quiet of the room his breath thundered.

            “Is everything alright, Sire?” Merlin asked as he hefted the breastplate up and over Arthur’s head, fitting it around the King’s chest.

            Arthur stared straight ahead and didn’t answer.

            Once he’d been properly fitted for the day’s training, Arthur marched onto the grounds, Merlin close at his heels. Already the knights had gathered and now stood in small groups, laughing and jesting.

            “Form up!” Arthur barked, and the men snapped to attention. Armor clanked as feet shuffled into place. Arthur stalked the lines of them, eyes scanning the faces—bearded, scarred, some young enough to still be children.

            And then he stopped in front of Lancelot.

            Lancelot smiled when he caught the King’s eye. Even bowed his head.

He had no idea Arthur knew.

            And how could he? No one had thought to warn him.

            “Lancelot, with me,” said Arthur, unsheathing his sword.

            Without hesitation Lancelot stepped onto the field, hefting his sword in his hand. He glanced down at his feet, nervous of his footing, and Arthur caught him unaware, a hard swipe into Lancelot’s flank. The metal rings of his mail sang and clattered. Had he been unprotected, Merlin was certain he’d be dead.

            “My Lord!” Lancelot swore, or as near he ever came to it. A murmur rose among the men. _This was only training_ , their whispered harmony seemed to say, _give the man a chance to prepare himself_. As if they’d actually spoken aloud, Arthur eyed the men, responding,

            “Your enemy will never give you fair warning. Be prepared at all times for an attack.” Arthur lowered his gaze towards Lancelot, who stooped, rubbing his tender side. “Or lose what you hold most dear. Lancelot, ready yourself.”

            Lancelot rose to his full height, sword poised. As Arthur stalked the field, Lancelot’s gaze followed him, circling. Merlin chewed his lip till he nearly tore the skin. A tense shiver ran through the gathered knights, like dogs before a hunt. Somehow, they knew there’d be blood.

            To Arthur’s credit, Lancelot struck the first blow. Quick as wind, he whipped through Arthur’s defenses, sword biting at the leather gauntlet in a deft disarm. But Arthur rolled his wrist, parrying the sword aside, and jamming his elbow, hard, into Lancelot’s chest. Merlin felt the wind knocked from him just by watching. One of the knights grunted in sympathy.

            Staggered, Lancelot stumbled backwards while Arthur pressed the advance. The wind whistled with the wide, rapid sweeps of his blade. The knights parted as the pair fought their way through them, Lancelot’s face beaded with sweat, his arm shaking with each retorted blow. Hissing clangs of metal upon metal rang out in the afternoon swelter, a shimmer of heated sound.

            Arthur swung low, and Lancelot crouched to block and evade. His guard dropped, there was no way Lancelot could have avoided Arthur’s fist as it connected with his jaw. Lancelot reeled backwards, landing with a heavy _thud_ on his back. Even Merlin knew this was bad form.

            He should have stayed down, but anger swelled within Lancelot’s breast, and he swiped Arthur’s feet out from under him. The King crumbled to the ground in a heap, and Lancelot was on him in seconds, grappling and grasping at armor, cloth, skin, anything to pin the other man down. A mesh of metal and flesh the pair rolled about on the grass, grunting and gnashing their teeth, each trying to best the other. Standing about in a huddled, confused mess, the knights murmured and whimpered with concern, each one edging forwards by degrees to separate the two, but none could muster the courage to intervene.

            With a thrust of his hips Arthur managed to lift Lancelot off the ground and tumble on top of him. Merlin noticed the dagger first—the sun glinted off the silver blade as Arthur slipped it from his boot. He had Lancelot pinned, elbow at his neck, with his attention focused on his sudden lack of air, and not the blade hovering over his chest.

            “Arthur, no!” Merlin shouted as he shoved his way through the crowd. His fingers gripped ineffectively at the back of Arthur’s mail. With a shrug of his shoulders Arthur brushed Merlin off. By now Lancelot had noticed the dagger, and he scrambled with the mad urgency of a trapped animal. The knights too noticed, if not the blade, that the bout had soured, and Merlin’s mad dash had shattered whatever spell held them silent and immobile. Now multiple hands swarmed forward, dragging the two apart, though only Arthur necessitated any force to hold him back.

            “Sire, _Sire_ , please…perhaps that’s enough training for one day,” Leon offered gently, a soothing hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur’s gaze smoldered, and he shrugged Leon’s kindness off with a sneer. He turned and strode towards the Citadel, Merlin close on his heels.

 

            “There, there, I know it stings,” Gaius cooed as he rubbed a thick, pungent salve onto the bruises on Lancelot’s chest, “but by morning you’ll fell right as rain. Or at least a good deal closer than you do now.”

            “Thank you,” Lancelot offered, eyes rising up into his eyebrows from where his bent face stared gloom at the floor. “I already feel better.” Gaius smiled the way a father does to a child attempting to be brave and pattered off to replace the herbs on the shelves he’d taken them from. Merlin watched Lancelot wince as he worked his tunic back up and over his chest. The fabric darkened and clung to the wet swaths of ointment drying onto his skin.

            “You know why he did it.”

            Lancelot did not look up, but stood, letting his shirt drape down over his waist. He could not turn his face to Merlin but spoke to an open book on the table, to a cracked mortar, the chair he’d been sitting in.

            “I know. As soon as I saw the knife, I knew.” Lancelot lifted his gaze, stared back with the defiance only lovers possess. “I think, perhaps, I would have done the same.”

            “She’s not your fiancée, though.”

            “But is she really his?”

            Merlin tasted anger at the back of his throat, hot and coppery, like blood. His hands fisted into tight balls and for a second he couldn’t respond, only huff.

            “She’s not…she’s not some _thing_ for you two to fight over like children. She’s not a toy!” Merlin hissed, dropping his voice to a sharp whisper as he crossed the room, leaned his face close into Lancelot’s.

            “Whatever she did, Merlin, no one forced her. She chose.” Lancelot tried to lay a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, but stopped inches short, having thought better of it. “Arthur could put a million rings on her fingers, place a thousand crowns on her head, and Guinevere would never truly be his. She’ll never truly be anyone’s. Women are not a thing to be owned.”

            For a moment Merlin’s tongue felt two sizes too large and his words rolled like marbles around in his mouth. When at last he spat them out, they sounded mumbled, malformed.

            “But he’s your King. Your…your _friend_.”

            Lancelot held Merlin’s face with his eyes, a sad curl on his lips, the type one gets when saying goodbye.

            “And I’m truly sorry for how I hurt him. But love…you’ll understand one day, Merlin.”

            The implications stung, and Merlin turned away, his back to Lancelot, till he heard the knight shuffle from the room and shut the door behind him. What did Lancelot know of Merlin’s love, or lack thereof? What did anyone of them know? Just because no one loved him back didn’t mean he couldn’t feel just as deeply, with any less intensity than they did.

            Merlin knew the long nights, the despair that came from reaching for a body that was never there. It left a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. It called his name—

            _Arthur…Arthur…Arthur_

            As always, Merlin brushed these feelings aside, dismissed them as foolish. Arthur loved _Gwen_ , he was going to marry her, or at least he’d been planning to before this morning. Whatever he might feel for his King would remain forever fantasy, a longing to be indulged late at night. Merlin told himself it was better this way, simpler. He took solace in their shared proximity, the confidence Arthur took in him. The simple intimacy of a hand on his shoulder, the brush of fingers against skin as he helped him dress. Merlin tried to be satisfied with that.

            “Merlin?”

            Merlin startled, spun around, surprised to find himself still in the chambers he shared with Gaius. He’d been so far away, with strong arms wrapped round his waist, his face nuzzled in a golden crown of blond hair. But he left all that and returned to the now.

            “Sorry I was…I was just thinking about Arthur—what he did to Lance, I mean. Perhaps I better go talk to him.”

            Gaius bade him be patient but watched him leave.

 

            Merlin’s footfalls seemed to echo as he marched through the Citadel. In his mind he replayed the day, the startling discovery, the way Gwen’s breast had heaved as Lancelot held her in his arms, the haunted scream of metal upon metal, the murderous, destroyed look in Arthur’s eyes. So absorbed in his own thoughts, Merlin nearly collided with the courier who, upon Merlin opening the door to Arthur’s chamber, gave a curt bow before scurrying off, a scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

            Arthur did not acknowledge Merlin when he entered the room. His back turned to the door, Arthur gazed out over the land, his shoulder pressed against the window frame. From his hand dangled a goblet of wine, which he sipped without delight. When at last he turned towards Merlin’s polite _ahem_ , his lips were stained a faint violet.

            “Do you have business to attend to, My Lord?” Merlin asked, gesturing towards the doorway from whence the courier had just disappeared.

            “Nothing of import,” Arthur replied, tipping his head back and draining the dregs of his wine. He strode to the table and refilled his goblet, then another, which sat bereft till Arthur offered it to Merlin. “Join me in a drink?”

            The audacity of the offer, its newness, startled Merlin, and despite his reservations he found himself accepting. Bittersweet, the wine stung his tongue, and he gulped down a mouthful in earnest, nervous at the intimacy of the moment. Arthur watched him drink, his eyes dragging along the bob of Merlin’s throat.

            “Today,” Merlin began, “on the training field—”

            Arthur cut him off. “Let’s not speak of unpleasantries.” He picked up the pitcher, and refilled Merlin’s goblet, though it wasn’t even half-empty. “It’s so seldom we can relax, just the two of us.” Arthur rounded the table to stand next to Merlin. At this distance Merlin could smell the tang of sweat beneath his arms that still clung to him. He hadn’t the time to draw him a bath.

            “Well maybe if you didn’t work me like a horse,” Merlin laughed, an attempt at gaiety to lighten the mood, but his mirth came out high and strained, a nervous girl’s giggle. Arthur eyed him slowly and inched closer. He laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

            “Do I work you too hard? Am I cruel?”

            Something shimmered behind Arthur’s voice, wet as tears. Merlin nearly chocked on his wine in his hurry to reassure him.

            “No! No, of course not, no. I was kidding, just…just kidding.” Merlin felt his cheeks redden and burn. Arthur took the goblet from his hand (his calluses felt rough as stone when they scraped against Merlin’s wrist) and set it down on the table. His breath heady with drink.

            “Even so, allow me to make amends.”

            Arthur cupped his hands on either side of Merlin’s face and pulled him into a kiss. The course stubble of Merlin’s cheek itched as Arthur slid his hands round to enwreathe themselves in the tangle of his hair. Merlin’s heart beat like a rabbit against its cage. For a brief moment he panicked, petrified that he’d caused this, that he’d magiced this, somehow, that he was making Arthur do this. But then teeth nibbled on his earlobe and sucked a series of wet kisses down his neck and he knew that this was real and true and _Arthur_.

            In their haste, stumbling back towards Arthur’s bed—which Merlin had made countless times but never once laid in—they knocked a chair to the floor and the clatter of wood upon stone sounded as glorious as trumpets. Merlin felt himself tipping backwards, and he clutched at Arthur’s back, nails like claws against his tunic, but then the soft cushions of the mattress caught him, feet kicking at the pillows, head nearly tumbling off the edge. And there was Arthur on top of him, the delicious weight pressing him down, squeezing the air out of his chest and into his mouth.

            In a deft swoop Arthur disavowed Merlin and him of their tunics, and suddenly there was the flush of skin upon skin, hotter than coals. Wherever Arthur’s mouth abandoned in the pursuit of unkissed flesh shivered with the wetness of its absence. Down and down he blazed, till his nose nuzzled the black wisps below Merlin’s navel, and his teeth grazed against the hem of Merlin’s britches.

            “Wait, Ar—” Merlin began, but then his hips were being lifted as Arthur sat up, fingers dug into the waistband of his trousers, wrenching them from Merlin’s legs. His flesh pimpled at the sudden chill.

            “Seems you aren’t entirely useless,” Arthur drolled, running his hands up Merlin’s thighs to cup his cock, which strained and leaked at the attention. Merlin tried, truly tried, to come up with a retort, but then Arthur’s mouth, his wet, warm, God-blessed mouth, was on him, and his tongue danced round the head of his cock, and suddenly all Merlin could do was throw back his head as moans and pleas and pants tumbled from his mouth with wanton, needy abandon.

            Like warm velvet, Arthur’s mouth slid around the shape of Merlin’s cock. Wet and inexperienced, Arthur bobbed and gagged on the length of it, but his enthusiasm made up for any lack of training. With a cough and sputter, Arthur popped his mouth off of Merlin and nuzzled down against his balls, tongue darting out to lick and prod.

            “Arthur, oh God, Arthur,” Merlin breathed, eyes rolled back up into his head. Heaven help him, but all his dreams had come true. All those long nights spent dreaming, yearning, praying, now finally blossomed into fruition. Arthur _loved_ him, big, strong, beautiful Arthur had brought him into his bed. Perhaps he’d been wrong to blame Gwen, perhaps she did understand love in all its unknowable grandeur. And had it not been for her betrayal, had it not been for Lancelot’s complacency, Merlin never would have found himself here, Arthur’s mouth upon his body.

            With a slick pop Arthur withdrew, and Merlin mewled in protest. His eyes raked over the line of muscle from shoulder to bicep as Arthur stretched, hand searching in the shadowed confines of a drawer next to his bedside. From within he produced a vial, the contents of which sloshed and glinted in the light. Uncapping it, Arthur let oil run over his hand, till his fingers glistened. He took his cock in hand, stroking and smoothing, while Merlin writhed beneath him.

            He was no fool. He knew what was coming, and his heart beat out madness at the thought. Of course he wanted this—wanted to be filled with Arthur, to be claimed and taken by him—but the logistics of it frightened him terribly. Arthur was not the first man to ever tussle Merlin’s innocence, but getting fucked by the King of Camelot was a great deal different from a roll in the hay with a stable boy.

            But then Arthur hoisted his legs into the air, his calves resting on his shoulders, and Merlin felt the head of his cock pressed against his body, begging entrance. He sucked air in through gritted teeth as Arthur pushed forward, the coil of muscle tense against this violation.

            Arthur began immediately, rocking his hips, and Merlin bit his cheek and turned his face into the mattress to hide his grimace. Arthur was new to this, Merlin was certain, and simply lacked finesse. He did not want to embarrass him, to draw attention to his inexperience, by expressing his discomfort. So he moaned and writhed and arched his back the way whores did in the stories knights told round their cups.

            As Arthur thrust, hips knocking into the backs of Merlin’s thighs, Merlin felt himself inch further off the bed, till his head hung over the floor, the entirety of Arthur’s room inverted. Blood rushed to his head, and soon Merlin’s vision grew blurry. He felt himself grow soft, despite his attempts to cajole himself into virility. If Arthur noticed, he paid no mind, simply bent over Merlin’s body, knees pressed into his chest, as he sped up towards a bruising pace.

            There came a knock at the door, and a voice soft as forgiveness called. With a gentle push the door swung open, and there, in the doorway, suspended from the ceiling, a scrap of paper in her hand, hung Gwen.

            Whatever words she’d been saying caught in her throat when she saw them. Merlin tried to sit up, to cover himself, to push Arthur off, but the King held him down with a hand on his chest. He no longer looked at Merlin, but held Gwen’s gaze with the intensity of a huntsman spying his prey. He punctuated each word with a roll of his hips.

            “How. Does. It. Feel.” He asked, a cruel smirk clawing at his lips.

            Upside down, Merlin watched her face crumble. As she turned and ran down the corridor, just before she disappeared from out the room, Merlin could have sworn he saw her eyes glisten with tears.

            Arthur pulled free of Merlin’s body as he hurried after her, hitching up his trousers, not bothering with a shirt. Merlin watched as he too, bare feet pattering on the ceiling, ran from the room, shouting after Guinevere.

            Stillness suffocated him in their absence. His body felt hollow and hollowed out—where Arthur had been moments before now ached with an unnamable lack. Unbidden the tears welled up in Merlin’s eyes, streaming hot down his cheeks. He clawed at the blanket and cocooned himself within its confines as sobs wracked his body. Merlin knew Arthur would soon return, with or without a placated Gwen, and that the last thing he’d want to find in his bed was Merlin, sad and desperate and pitiable. But for a moment, just a moment, Merlin allowed himself to break, to cry and wail, wrapped in the scent of a man who’d never love him. He gave himself permission to mourn for all the kisses he’d never taste.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading.


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